


wayward girl, be free

by autoluminescence



Category: Bomb Girls
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoluminescence/pseuds/autoluminescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is Eve, and chooses the bite. </p>
<p>She is <i>Kate</i>, and chooses the fall</p>
            </blockquote>





	wayward girl, be free

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://peripeteia.dreamwidth.org/3640.html?thread=111928#cmt111928) prompt at the _kisses down low_ ficathon.

At 7, Marion hasn’t learned to be afraid. She thinks the songs are pretty, and her father is god, and her mother brings her bright red apples from the orchard down the road.

Her father leans back on his chair and watches her eat, angry smirk permanently plastered on his face. “And the serpent spoke to the woman, and she took the fruit, and she did eat.”

He sits up and bores into her with a look. “Remember, Marion. You carry her sin, and your body is its vessel.”

She nods, eyes still wide and trusting, and bows her head.

…..

Kate is _always_ afraid, and braver for it. She finds freedom in crafting her instruments of death, and sings in churches and the cabaret, and, right now, learns her own woman-sinful-flushing-joyful body.

Because - right now - Kate is tangled up in a smooth Betty-body, the last shards of it’s a sin, broken by choosing a name and building a life, finally falling off with the force of how perfectly, inescapably _right_ this is.

She has killed her father, but this is what buries him: the transference of thought ( _curves even more beautiful without blouses and coveralls_ ) to action (tentative cup-and-squeeze, smiling with triumph into the kiss at the responding jerk and gasp).

There’s too much warm skin rubbing all over her body, and it’s the most addictive feeling she’s ever had, arching blindly for more sensation wherever she can find it. She understands, suddenly, the reasoning behind the sinfulness; she feels _possessed_ , twitching and whimpering helplessly as sparks race down her skin at the touch of Betty’s lips to her neck.

She imagines how she must look, red hair over the pillow, lips parted, legs spreading automatically under Betty’s questioning hands. Wanton women. Devil’s instruments of lust.

She _moans_.

Betty’s moving down her body, rushing, like she’s afraid that if she pauses for too long Kate might run off again, and Kate considers vaguely that she ought to reassure her - that this is _it_ , this is the love and this is the life and this is the bed, and this is the name she will never change again - but every shift feels even better, and she can’t bring herself to stop.

Abruptly, Betty slides down completely between her legs and cocks one eyebrow, a teasing half-question, face almost identical to the first time they met, when Kate had her entire being locked down to the smallest ball she could fit into and -

_you think we’re all a bunch of crooks here?_

And, yes, of _course_ they are, because Betty has knocked down her walls and put amatol in her hands and stolen her breath, and Kate grins wildly back, and opens.

Shocking wet heat and she can’t even _breathe_ because of Betty’s mouth, Betty’s _mouth_ , ( _Betty’s_ mouth), is _right there_ , and every centimeter of her skin is on fire. There’s not nearly enough air in the room and Kate can feel herself melting into a sweaty, needy mess on the sheets, unable to breathe through the pounding in her ears.

Betty swipes her tongue deep and Kate nearly _screams_ ; it’s too, too much and all she can do is desperately cant her hips up further. Her head tosses on the pillow and she grips the sheets, trying to claw back any measure of control, but Betty’s licks have morphed into sucks, and she’s falling.

But even anchorless, it’s still a choice - she is Eve, and chooses the bite, she is Kate, and chooses the fall, letting go and slipping under until she’s shudder-shaking with the force of pleasure, mind going white.

She comes back slowly with limbs of gel, and she opens her eyes to hopelessly disheveled sheets and the most gorgeously debauched angel she’s ever seen (with, it appears, desire-dark and widely hopeful eyes and, oh, Kate will have to do something about _that_ ).

This is a life of fire and tears and of God and sin that she built, and it’s more beautiful than she could ever have imagined.


End file.
